


At the End of the Tunnel

by ZoS



Series: Her Andrea-verse [3]
Category: The Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Drama, Established Relationship, F/F, Gen, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Romance, Vignettes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-05
Updated: 2019-03-05
Packaged: 2019-11-12 13:19:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18011654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZoS/pseuds/ZoS
Summary: Full recovery from a craniotomy takes about eight weeks. Andy spends seven of those outside the hospital and learns that when it comes to trauma, physical and mental recoveries don't always go hand in hand.Third part ofHer Andrea-verse.





	At the End of the Tunnel

**Author's Note:**

> This story evolved from a request made by **forsheezy98** for me to explore Andy's fear of getting inside a car again. As usual, I got ahead of myself.
> 
> \---
> 
>  **A/N:** I only know about trauma from my own personal experience, which sprouted from different circumstances, so I can't promise that this story will be 100% accurate.
> 
> However, I wrote it with the utmost respect and tried to do the subject justice. If anyone is offended by the way I approached it, I apologize.
> 
> This is also one of the reasons I kept the snippets relatively short, so as to not delve too deeply into unfamiliar territory. The other reason is a _e_ s _t_ h _e_ t _i_ c.

_That must have been one of if not the scariest moment in her life and Miranda hadn't even realized how it might affect her. She might never feel safe inside a car or on the road again. She might never trust another person to drive her. And she'd always have the physical reminder of the time she'd almost died._

\---

**Week 1**

_The blow is strong enough to be felt before it's heard or altogether registered. Her body jerks against the seat. There's a searing pain in her head. Everything turns to black._

The fact that the mirror above the sink is so small it captures only her face and chest seems almost like some cruel, cosmic joke; forcing her to focus on the worst parts of her.

The burn her seat belt left her with has mostly healed, the worst of it remaining on the left side of her neck. Her fingers lightly touch the area, run over the reddish marks that one of the nurses has promised her would disappear in several days.

Her head is a different story. The staples holding her scalp together--which she, thankfully, never got a chance to see--are gone now and so is the bandage, but the scars are still pretty nasty and a considerable portion of the left side of her head has been left hairless.

Carefully, she touches her fingers to the bulging horseshoe scar and watches in the mirror just to make sure she's actually making contact. The area is completely numb, which the doctor has assured her is normal.

As are the headaches, the shooting pain in the area that comes and goes, the nausea, unbelievable fatigue, and this strange tightness in her skull. All normal; all symptoms of her procedure.

She sighs.

How did she get here? When did this become her life? Spending day and night at the hospital, being on a strict medicine regime, hiring a nurse to care for her at home because she can't care for herself.  _Two brain surgeries_.

Who undergoes two brain surgeries in as many days? Most people go through their whole lives without one. Andy never expected to belong in the other group.

She focuses her eyes on the mirror again, examining her face. She can't recognize herself anymore; doesn't know the person staring back at her. That person's face is sunken and colorless, her eyes lacking any signs of life--or any signs of anything but tiredness, really.  _Immense_  tiredness.

She's found that she's lucky if she can stay awake for three or four straight hours. It's been over a week since the surgeries and still she constantly feels as though she's been awake for days--something she's been informed will continue for quite a while. It's as if her internal body clock has reset to perceive the entire day as nighttime, save for a few hours. She feels like falling asleep right now, right where she's standing.

Perhaps that's one of the reasons she remembers very little from her hospital stay. The doctor said that it's due to her steroid induced psychosis and that it will go away in no time, but she doubts that makes much of a difference. After all, if you sleep the day away, what's left to remember?

What she's more concerned about is her longer-term memory issues. She's taken to calling them brain farts, much to Miranda's disapproval, but that's what they feel like: brain pauses that make having lengthy conversations challenging because she. Just. Can't. Find. The words. Which is the worst trait for a writer to have.

It will all pass. All in good time. That's what everyone keeps saying. Sure, easy for them. They don't have to live her life.

"Andrea?" she hears from inside the room, takes one last look at her butchered head, sighs, and exits the bathroom.

"Yeah."

Miranda, standing by her bed with a large  _Gucci_  bag, eyes her with that look that has become her irritating, default way of looking at Andy. As if Andy is this fragile porcelain doll that might break any minute. She wonders if Miranda is even capable of seeing  _her_  anymore, beyond the injury and symptoms and misery. She wonders if she's capable of thinking of her as anything other than a patient and if she ever will. Because right now, she's not helping Andy feel anything but.

"Is everything alright?" she asks slowly with that accompanying edge to her voice that Andy is slowly growing to resent.

"Yeah," she repeats. "Just needed to use the bathroom before we leave. Did they give you the discharge papers?"

"Yes," Miranda replies, apparently pacified by her answer, and now she sounds like her normal self: business as usual. "I brought you clothes, and my driver is waiting outside. Are you all set?"

"Yep," Andy answers, eyeing her packed bag, which Miranda will, miraculously, carry for her. She's already getting exhausted at the prospect of getting dressed, walking all the way out of the building, enduring the ride back home.

But nevertheless, she lets Miranda help her with her clothes, and she takes the time to thank the nurses that have taken care of her despite Miranda's impatience, and she leans her weight on Miranda as they make their way through the hospital corridors. Miranda already seems to know the way by heart, and Andy trusts her to lead.

"There's going to be some traffic so it might take a while," Miranda says when they reach the car, sounding appropriately displeased that every driver in New York City has refused to cooperate with Andy's need to get the hell home. She also seems to sense Andy's own urgency because she sends one glance her way and says, "You can try to sleep in the car."

"It's fine. I'll be okay," Andy replies, but her voice comes out weak and she thinks she just might fall asleep regardless of her intentions.

Henry is already standing by the open door with a bright and welcoming smile, and he gives her a courteous nod when she approaches and places her good hand on the side of the car for balance.

_She feels the blow before she hears it, the force of it propelling her entire body almost out of the seat. In the back of her mind, she's grateful for the seat belt that keeps her grounded, even as it feels like it's choking her._

_Her body jerks and rocks against the seat, feeling as though it's being tossed around like a rag doll, and a sharp pain shoots through her arm. Just before everything goes dark, she can feel something explode inside her head._

She doesn't exactly jump away from the car, but when she returns to herself, she's about three feet away from where she was standing before and there's a tremor in her hands that she can't control.

"Andrea?" Miranda is at her side in seconds, furrowing her brows at her in that concerned expression that Andy can't even be bothered to feel exasperated with.

"I, uh..." she stammers and clears her throat. "I think, maybe it's too soon. Maybe I shouldn't leave the hospital yet."

The thought of going back inside, to all the needles and sick people and the nauseating smell of her sheets, sounds awful, but the prospect of getting in this car right now is even worse. She's feeling dizzy and her nausea is back at full force and her head is pounding.

"Are you feeling bad?" Miranda misinterprets, even though the answer is "yes." The answer is always "yes."

"I just..." She looks at the leather seats inside the car, catches Henry's frown from the corner of her eye. Takes a deep breath and tries again. "I just don't think I'm ready yet," she says to Miranda, keeping her voice low. Her hands shake some more, though now it's with embarrassment more than anything else because she feels like the world's biggest coward.

That's when Miranda seems to catch on and her face falls for just a second before she hardens her features in a typical Miranda fashion and comes closer, keeping her voice equally low. "It doesn't matter when you do this. You're going to have to do it eventually."

"I know, but I just--" Andy whimpers, sounding like a reluctant child. Miranda cuts her off.

"Andrea. It's just one ride. And I'll be there the entire time."

It's not enough to calm her nerves, not even close, and a terrible voice inside her head insists that Miranda won't be able to protect her if they both get tossed off the road. Vaguely, she recalls pointing out to Miranda the unlikelyhood of another accident occuring, but it all goes out the window now when a car is right in front of her and she's expected to go in.

And as Miranda has just informed her,  _there's so many people on the road_.

But she's tired and she's feeling sick and she thinks she might just pass out if she doesn't sit down soon. It's too exhausting to so much as activate her brain, not to mention start an argument. And Miranda is right: she can't hide in the hospital forever and that hospital is the last place she wants to hide in.

So she takes another deep breath and she chances another look inside the car and she silently begs her hands to stop shaking. "Can we switch sides?" she whispers and her voice almost breaks on the last syllable.

Miranda frowns, obviously not expecting that response. But the left side of the backseat has become "Andy's side" through some unspoken agreement, since her days as Miranda's assistant even. Miranda prefers the right side, for no particular reason, Andy believes (except perhaps because it's farther away from the driver), which has left Andy with only one option. Some time after leaving Miranda's employ, she discovered that inertia must have kicked in because she kept finding herself picking the left side in every car ride she took, even when she was the only passenger.

That was the side she occupied in the cab that met its demise shortly thereafter. Now she looks at the left side of her and Miranda's spacious backseat and she remembers sliding in behind the cab driver. She remembers engaging in a brief conversation. She remembers feeling the blow hit the left side of her body. And she can't bare the thought of putting herself in that same spot.

Miranda doesn't say anything. She merely walks around her, instructs, "Open the other door for Andrea," and sits in a spot Andy has only seen her occupy a handful of times.

She gives Henry an apologetic smile because he looks confused as hell, even as he kindly helps her into Miranda's side and gently closes the door behind her, and then she's in the car, she hears the engine revving up, every inch of her body tingles unpleasantly, and somewhere in the back of her mind, she registers Miranda's hand resting on her thigh; warm and steady and reassuring.

She falls asleep before they start moving.

*

She wakes up with a start, only to realize that Miranda's hand is gently shaking her shoulder. She feels far from well-rested and as if she's only floating through rather than participating in a reality everyone else is living.

Her eyes threaten to close again, but then Miranda's voice comes from far away, as if echoing through a tube. Andy's sleep-induced brain picks up on words such as "almost home" and "wake up," and she gives an answering hum that requires too much energy before wiping a streak of drool from the side of her lips and sitting up straight. Or, well, trying to because her body refuses to cooperate, slumping against the door like a boneless dummy.

She hears Miranda's distant voice utter some more words; "nurse" and "meds" among them. She also catches the word "nap" and clings to the promise of rest.

However, she wakes up just enough to hear Miranda sigh and murmur, "What are they doing here?" and through the window, Andy's eyes catch the townhouse's front steps, where a dozen or so people are camped out on the sidewalk, some holding cameras and microphones.

A vague part of her brain that's not fully registering the world moving in slow-motion around her thinks,  _Someone must have tipped them off._

"I can go around to the back of the house." That's Henry's voice, coming from the driver's seat. She doesn't hear Miranda answer, but feels the car swerve and then the paparazzi are out of sight.

She forces herself to stay awake and focus her eyes on the scenery passing blurrily by her window until the car stops. Miranda is out in a flash and Andy struggles to push her door open with a hand that feels as though it's made of jelly. However, then Henry is by her side, offering his hand, which she takes gratefully and steps out.

He helps steady her until Miranda is at her side, carrying a bag on each shoulder and slipping an arm around her back. Looking up, she realizes they've already taken a few steps without her noticing, and soon she's standing outside the back door, waiting for Miranda to unlock it.

All she can think about is their bed. How many steps will it take her to get to the bedroom? Will she be able to climb all those stairs? What kind of sheets are on the bed? She hopes it's the blue and white, silken set she likes, though right now she could lie on a bed made of nails and sleep like a baby.

"Come on," Miranda says and she looks down to see that she's gently tugging on her right hand, pulling her into the kitchen through the now open door.

The room is warm and brightly lit, and she can smell food, though she's not sure what exactly, but it means that their cook has been here recently. Everything around her feels familiar and comforting and she leans into Miranda's welcoming embrace and mutters, "Home sweet home."

  
**Week 2**

Andy closes her eyes and tilts her head back, basking in the tingling warmth. She has no doubt that her lips are stretched into a pretty dopey smile.

She could fall asleep like this; right here, right now: surrounded by warm water and bath salts, with Miranda's tender fingers massaging her scalp.

She's pretty sure she can wash her own hair, now that her sling is off and the pain in her elbow is nothing but a dull ache, but she's not about to stop Miranda's ministrations, not when they feel so good. Besides, Miranda has a better view of her scars and to Andy, the area is still too numb to really know what she's doing. She wonders what Miranda thinks of the scars.

"I had a thought," Miranda murmurs, her voice low and soothing, and Andy has to force her eyes to open. They glaze over for a moment before focusing on Miranda's own; green-blue, fierce, and intent.

"Hmm?"

"What do you say to dinner?" Her voice actually lowers and she sounds cautious, as if Andy would ever say "no" to dinner.

"I'm always down for food."

"Outside," Miranda clarifies and it almost comes out as a croak. "After your nap."

Oh. Frowning, Andy shifts in the tub, turning more fully in her direction, and Miranda removes her hands from her head. She feels the loss instantly. "As in... in a..." What's that place called? "Restaurant?" Miranda nods. "Oh."

Her face blank, Miranda gently turns Andy's head back to its former position and resumes massaging the shampoo in as if nothing has been said. "We'll have our own private booth, of course," she adds, but her voice doesn't allow Andy much insight into her thoughts.

Andy stares at the small rainbows the reflection of the light in the oily water creates. So far, going outside hasn't been her favorite thing. It's more exhausting than staying home and, thanks to the fact that she's Miranda Priestly's partner, people stare. That hasn't really bothered her before--she's learned to live with it--but now she can't stand the staring. "What if someone says something?" she says, her tone softer than Miranda's. "You know on our walk last week, that guy from  _Page Six_  wrote--"

"There will be," Miranda interrupts her, "no writing." Her words sound like they're coming out through gritted teeth and there's an edge to her voice, but now Andy can recognize it perfectly as anger. Miranda was more upset than her when she saw the comment made about her shaved head and scars in the paper, and promptly had the reporter removed from his job. Andy thinks she might have gone a little farther than that, too, and she would have scolded her for overreacting, but she was too tired to really care. Now, though, Miranda's words hold so much conviction that she almost believes her.

"Well, okay then," she concedes reluctantly, but dreads getting up from her upcoming nap nevertheless. Especially because she knows exactly how they'll be getting to the restaurant.

Sure enough, after her nap and after getting dressed and after covering her head with a hat Miranda deems stylish even though she feels ridiculous wearing a hat in the evening; they exit the house to find the town car parked by the sidewalk.

Andy halts her step and stares.

_She hurries into the cab, closes the door behind her, and announces, "East 13th Broadway." The car starts moving before she's even buckled in._

_She looks up just in time to catch the driver's eyes in the mirror before they shift and land on something beside her. "Writer?" he asks in an accent she can't quite identify. Indian?_

_Following his gaze, she sees her laptop case on the seat beside her and looks back up. "Journalist."_

_"Oh, really? What paper?" he asks and she's not sure whether he's actually interested or just making conversation, but she'll indulge him anyway._

_"_ The New Yorker _."_

_He nods. "Good paper. Good paper. They have funny drawings on cover."_

_Andy chuckles. "Yeah--"_

_She feels the blow before she hears it, before she registers what's happening. Her body jerks violently, her seat belt clings painfully to her skin, and somewhere in the back of her mind, she's still grateful for its presence, for keeping her in her seat._

_A sharp pain shoots through her arm, something bangs against the side of her head, and a searing pain spreads through her skull before everything stops._

"Andrea?" Miranda frowns from her spot beside the open car door. Henry is already behind the wheel.

Andy's legs walk unsteadily toward her, her hands trembling, but when she reaches the car, she stops again and stares inside. Her chest tightens, her heartbeat picks up its pace, and she turns to Miranda and says, "You know what? I think I'll walk. I can meet you there."

She's already taken a few steps away from the car when Miranda states knowingly, "Andrea."

"What?" Andy turns around and fakes a smile. She thinks it comes out looking pretty tremulous. "It's not that far away and Dr. Reed said that walking's good for me. I guess you can't do too much of that," she adds with a shrug and a chuckle, though it sounds humorless to her ears.

Approaching her, Miranda raises an eyebrow and says, "You, in fact,  _can_  do too much of that, which is also what Dr. Reed told you. You should exercise in moderation; not put too much pressure on your body."

"I'm not jogging," Andy counters. "The more I walk, the better."

The last word is barely out of her mouth before Miranda orders, "Andrea, get in the car." It comes out on an exhale and she's starting to look peeved.

Andy feels like a chastised child. She gulps, she glances at the car, but she doesn't make a move to enter it. She looks at Miranda, who stares right back unblinkingly, unflinchingly. Unrelenting.

Reluctantly, Andy gets in the car.

This ride is decidedly worse than the last because, while still tired, she's much more awake. And she's much more alert. Her eyes are glued to the window, watching every car from every direction. She feels as though any one of them could come hurling toward their car at any given moment. Her incision area pulses momentarily in remembered agony and her palms get clammy.

_The blow propels her almost out of her seat. Her body jerks to and fro. Pain shoots up her arm. Something bangs against her head and unimaginable pain spreads through it before everything turns to black._

"STOP!"

The car swerves and screeches to a halt by the side of the road, and it's not until they're completely still that Andy realizes her fingers are digging into her seat in a death grip, her breath is leaving her mouth in quick pants, and Miranda's eyes are skewered into the side of her face.

"Andre--"

"I wanna go home," she states, trying to regulate her breathing.

"Andrea--" Miranda tries again and she turns to face her.

"Miranda. I want. To go. Home," she enunciates hotly before leaning toward Henry. "Take us home."

She hears Miranda inhale sharply--they both do because Henry looks in the rearview mirror--and turns to her again. Miranda's face is unreadable but for her cold gaze and pursed lips. Diverting her eyes to the window, she commands, "Take us home."

  
**Week 3**

"What time is Miranda supposed to get here?"

Andy places the pills on her tongue, takes a big gulp of water, and tilts her head back. "About an hour or so," she croaks out, fighting her gag reflex. Every single time, she's reminded of just how much she hates swallowing pills.

"Will she take a walk with you or do you want to go now?" Renée asks.

Burrowing back into the warm sheets, Andy replies, "I think I'm all walked out for today."

"Not even close," Renée says without missing a beat, her face as still and cold as a statue. Andy wasn't there for Miranda's nurse selection, but she doubts it's a coincidence that she picked the one closest to herself in personality, one who never lets Andy get away with anything.

She sighs. "I'm not feeling well. Give me a break, will you?"

"You will continue to not feel well unless you do something about it," Renée argues levelly. "You've taken your medicine, you've eaten, you've had your nap; now it's time for your walk."

Her hand grabs the edge of Andy's blanket and Andy, in a ninja move she's quite proud of, snatches it up to her neck a second before it's tugged off her body. "Fine, okay,  _okay_ ," she relents, raising her voice when Renée's fingers remain wrapped around the cushiony material. "I will go with Miranda, okay?"

"Will you?" Renée raises an eyebrow, looking rightfully skeptical.

"I said I'll go."

Her eyes narrow and she doesn't look convinced, but after a few seconds, she nods, grabs Andy's now empty glass, and heads into the bathroom. After silently placing it back on the nightstand, now filled with tap water (if Miranda knew, she'd fire her), she turns around and leaves the bedroom.

Thankful for the respite, Andy closes her eyes and goes to sleep.

*

She wakes up when she feels the bed dip, and opens her eyes to find Miranda sitting on the edge, her white forelock falling over one eye as she looks down at her. "Morning."

"Hey," Andy mumbles, snuggling further into the cool parts of the sheets.

"How are you feeling?"

She opens her mouth to reply, then frowns. "What's the word for when you want to sleep?"

"Tired?"

"Yeah," she mutters and sighs.

"Well, you'll feel better after you walk for a while," Miranda states while getting up and smoothing out her skirt.

Andy groans. "Now? Can we go later? I want to sleep."

Miranda seems unfazed by her pleas. "You've already had your scheduled nap today." She gives her a glare. "And another one."

Fucking Renée. "Tattletale," Andy mutters under her breath.

"Come on, get up, before dinner is ready," Miranda says and, just like Renée did, takes hold of the blanket and pulls. Andy's reflexes aren't as sharp after her nap, and a gush of chilly air hits her before she grabs the blanket and covers herself back up.

"Andrea," Miranda says exasperatedly, her voice bordering on a growl. "I don't have time for these games."

"Then go do your things," Andy urges, matching her tone. "I'm tired. We'll walk later."

"No, we'll walk now," Miranda insists, giving her a glare that is very much like the ones she used to receive as a lowly assistant at  _Runway_ , eons ago. "Renée may let you get away with these stunts,"--Andy  _wishes_ \--"but I won't. I'm not your nurse--"

"Right, you're not my nurse," Andy retorts, her voice rising, and she can't help but feel irked at Miranda's attitude and Renée's air of importance and the whole damn world. Why can't they just get it through their heads that she's tired and she's hurting and she's not always going to feel up to walking? She was in an accident, she had two brain surgeries--she's allowed. "You're not my nurse so stop acting like one."

If she expected Miranda to back off after that, she's sorely mistaken. "Why are you so intent on fighting?" she questions, hands going to her hips.

"Who's fighting?" Andy mutters bitterly.

"Stop acting like a child."

"Then stop acting like my mom." She gives Miranda her own challenging glare.

Miranda's nostrils flare. Her eyes darken. Her lips pinch. "Get up," she orders darkly.

"No--"

"Andrea, get up," she repeats, sounding truly angry now, and flings the blanket off Andy's body again. Andy shivers in the cold and reaches for it, but Miranda throws it across the bed and raises her voice. "Get up!"

Andy does get up, but only to round the bed and get the blanket. "Leave me alone."

"What is wrong with you?" Miranda demands. "Why are you being like this?"

"Because I'm not feeling well and you insist on torturing me," Andy spits, holding the blanket close to her chest.

"Torturing you?" Miranda lets out on a disbelieving laugh. "I am trying to help you."

"Well, then stop, because it's _not_ helping."

"So you'd rather rot away in bed? Disregard everything the doctor told you?"

"I didn't say that!" Andy argues, her frustration growing by the second--as does her voice. She just wants to rest. "You don't know what I'm--" Brain fart. Again. She groans and she taps her foot on the floor impatiently, and thankfully, Miranda waits until she finds the word " _feeling_ , so stop pretending that you do."

"I don't know what you're feeling--"

"No."

"I don't know--"

"No!" she repeats. "You don't! You weren't in that... arghhh, _car_  thing, and you weren't in that hospital bed--you didn't go through what I did and you don't know!"

Her voice has reached its full capacity by now, and although her head is beginning to throb, she pushes on, "I'm tired of people pretending that they know and telling me what to do. I'm tired of pills and I'm tired of sleeping with my head--" Her brain pauses again, and instead of wasting time and searching for the right words--it really doesn't help her argument when she can't be fluent and it's driving her _crazy_ \--she tilts her chin down and continues, "Like _this_ , and I'm tired of forgetting words! _I_ was in a... a... _the thing_ , and _I_ had surgeries, and _I'm_ stuck with this big, ugly scar! I have to suffer the trauma and constantly feeling like shit--"

And, incredibly, terrifyingly, Miranda's voice rises as well. Andy can probably count on one hand the amount of times she's heard Miranda yell in the six years she's known her, and this is the second time just this month. "Yes, Andrea, I know! _You_ were in an accident and _you_ had surgeries and you're the one suffering--I know. Trust me, I am painfully aware."

Stunned, Andy can do nothing but stare wide-eyed. They're standing on opposite sides of the bed, each holding her own stance, scowling with their ire, chests rising and sinking rapidly. Andy's no longer holding onto the blanket, watching mutely as Miranda continues, "I didn't go through any of that--you've been doing a great job reminding me of that little fact, thank you. But you know what? I was the one who got the call telling me that you were in the hospital. I had to leave everything and wait for hours on end, not knowing if you would make it out of surgery, if you would wake up, if your brain would be damaged or not.

"I sat and watched you for days and couldn't do anything to help you, didn't know if I was about to lose you and what I would do without you, and I'm the one who wakes up every night to check that you're still breathing, that you haven't _died_ on me! So I'm very sorry, Andrea, that you're going through everything you're going through, but you want to talk about trauma? You're not the only one traumatized here!"

The words are barely out of her mouth before she turns on her heel, storms into the en suite, and slams the door. Andy stares after her, frozen and open-mouthed, and to her horror, her eyes sting and blur wetly.

She doesn't sit down on the bed so much as collapses, hurriedly blinking the tears away. All she can think about is that she has really fucked up. And she's really, really tired.

*

So, Andy feels shitty about herself.

She likes to think herself a selfless person. She was brought up to be kind and caring and loving, and she's always prided herself on her ability to sympathize and put others' feelings before her own.

She concedes that when one gets hit by a car, one's rules don't always apply.

Miranda's words came as a surprise because, to her shame, she really hadn't considered how badly the accident affected her, too. Of course she's seen and felt her worry, and all her efforts to keep Andy happy and comfortable haven't gone unnoticed, but Andy has been so focused on her own trauma, her own pain and suffering, that she didn't stop to think that Miranda had almost lost her.

She can only imagine what went through her head while Andy was blithely unconscious. Miranda hates not knowing everything, hates when every moment of every day is not organized and scheduled in her head. Andy can now barely remember anything from her hospital stay, but she remembers how distraught Miranda looked the entire time.

She tries to put herself in her shoes, tries to picture Miranda lying in a hospital bed, drained of energy, half of her iconic hair gone and in its place a horrific scar. She shudders and wills the images away. It's the scariest, worst thing imaginable.

Miranda getting hurt, a life without Miranda--or at least not the same Miranda; the notion is absolutely terrifying. Andy thinks she can get an idea as to how Miranda has been feeling in the last month.

She knocks once and waits.

The "Come in" is heard quietly through the closed door, and when she opens it and stands in the threshold of Miranda's study, Miranda is behind her desk, working on the Book. Not looking at her.

Hiding the box behind her back, she's careful not to squash it as she leans against the doorpost and stares at Miranda, watches her concentration. That aspect of her work ethic has always been a cause for fascination for Andy: the way she can disappear into her work, push everything aside and dedicate her undivided attention to one task, giving it her all. Now Andy wants her attention.

She waits until Miranda looks up to give her a secretive smile before biting her lip and fidgeting against the doorpost. "Remember," she begins slowly, drawing the word out, "when we just started dating, and you made me feel really shitty that one time because I thought you were ashamed to be with me?"

Miranda doesn't look away, but she purses her lips and her face hardens. She probably didn't expect Andy's apology to start with another accusation--one that dates back to what now feels like decades ago at that--but Andy's not worried; she knows where she's headed and she knows Miranda.

"You felt so bad--even though you tried to pretend that you were unaffected--that you got me a slice of every single cake from _Cheesecake Factory_ , even the ones I didn't like," she says as she slowly makes her way to the table and stops when she's in front of Miranda, who's still holding her red pen, as if waiting to determine if Andy's speech is worth abandoning her work. Andy continues as amusement stretches her lips further, "Because, according to you, sugar always makes me happy."

Miranda doesn't acknowledge the memory, but she doesn't dismiss her either, which is good enough for Andy, who takes her cue and pulls the box from behind her back, setting it on the desk and pulling up the lid. Miranda's eyes leave hers momentarily to glance inside before lifting again. Her eyebrow rises as well.

Andy didn't exactly get _every single_ cake, but she got all their favorites, even the ones Miranda pretends not to like because they're too "plebeian," but ends up devouring, and she hopes Miranda will appreciate the gesture.

"I couldn't remember the words for, like, half of these, but the girl on the phone was super helpful once I told her I was Miranda Priestly's assistant," she says and, for a split second, the corner of Miranda's lip twitches before she resumes her blank gaze.

"You were right," Andy finally admits. "I didn't think about what you were going through. I've been so focused on how bad I have it that I forgot you were experiencing it all with me, that you have it bad as well.

"It's just," she adds and sighs in despair, "this has been the worst few weeks of my life and I feel like no one is getting how hard it really is. I was planning to try out this new... um... Thai place with a friend from work the day after the accident, and instead I found myself in the hospital after a brain surgery I didn't even know I was gonna have."

She thinks she can see some sympathy in Miranda's eyes for a split second before her expressionless expression is back. Sitting down--because even standing for too long is tiring these days--she casts her gaze downward at the desk and continues softly, "I feel like I don't know myself anymore. My body refuses to do what I want it to and my brain has a mind of its own and I feel like I'm losing control over every aspect of my life."

Sighing again, she looks up at Miranda, who's no longer holding her pen. Her undivided attention is now fixed on Andy and, to thank her, Andy gives her a small smile. "But you haven't given up on me once. You've been going above and beyond to help me through this and you take all my shit and don't complain. I couldn't do this without you, Miranda. I really couldn't"

To her relief, Miranda's face softens, but the moment passes seconds later and then she's pursing her lips again, regarding her coldly. "Is this your apology? Cakes and an excuse?" she asks imperiously and Andy realizes that there wasn't actually a "sorry" in her little speech. There she goes being self-centered again.

"That." She shrugs with a half-hearted smile. "And also I'm sorry for being a selfish bitch."

Miranda's lips twitch again, more noticably this time, she notes with delight, as if begging to smile against her better judgement. But when she lifts her chin regally some moments later and speaks up again in that haughty, snooty tone she reserves for her employees, Andy knows that it's all just an act and her shoulders sag in relief. "Did you bring forks?"

Her smile grows so big that it hurts her cheeks, but she can't stop as she reaches for her back pocket and pulls out two forks, handing one to Miranda, who takes it willingly. And then smiles at Andy.

  
**Week 4**

Andy examines herself in the mirror for what feels like the thousandth time. She would feel a lot better about herself if not for the damn scars.

As if of its own volition, her hand rises to touch them. She finds herself doing that quite frequently lately: running her fingers across the bulges, playing with the short hairs around them, trying not to rub or scratch because while the numbness is still mostly there, the nerves are just starting to heal and they send small, shooting pains in protest every time she does.

Overall, the incision is healing up beautifully, as Dr. Reed informed her, and her headaches are now kept to a minimum. She's also getting more of her energy back, no longer struggling to stay awake every minute of every day.

Which is why this is the perfect opportunity, she determines and runs her hands down her outfit.

"Andrea?" she hears from outside the door, the voice slightly raised, and decides that Miranda must be approaching the bedroom. Her heart rate quickens in anticipation mixed with anxiety.

Miranda's voice sounds closer when she says, "How did the appointment--" she cuts herself off and Andy smiles slyly at the figure in the mirror. She's in the bedroom now.

"...go," Miranda finishes weakly just as Andy opens the en suite door and steps out, trying to keep her posture straight, trying to look confident. And sexy.

She's lost some weight, but the teddy Miranda gifted her on their third Christmas together still fits marvelously; black and lacy, clinging in just the right places and pushing her breasts up. The look is accompanied by black stockings and _Louboutin_ s.

Miranda's eyes stop wandering around the room and roam over her body instead, her lips parted. Andy thinks that her efforts might have paid off.

Shaving was more of a drag than usual, especially after letting her hair grow freely for over a month, and setting the room up took longer than it normally would, but now it's illuminated by the soft glow from the scented candles; the bed is covered in fresh, white sheets adorned by rose petals, and she even felt a little kitschy and added jazz music in the background. Pulling it all off was a little stressful in the short time span she had between sending Renée away and Miranda returning home, but the look on Miranda's face now is worth the hard work.

"What is this?" Miranda asks in wonder and not a little confusion.

"What do you think?" Andy replies as she saunters over, hoping she's able to convery enough seduction and praying that her heels won't trip her. It's been a while.

Miranda removes her eyes from her breasts with what looks like great difficulty and meets her own eyes, but she doesn't say anything. Andy likes to think she's rendered her speechless. Stopping just a few inches short of her personal space, she grabs Miranda's hip and pulls her to her. Miranda gasps. Good. "It's been ages," Andy says, keeping her voice low and sultry.

"Andrea, I--" Miranda's voice comes out raspy. She clears her throat and tries again, looking somewhere behind Andy's shoulder, "I don't think it's a good idea."

"Wrong," Andy counters, having expected that response. She starts playing with the top button of Miranda's blouse and looks up at her through hooded eyes. Miranda's own eyes glaze over. "Dr. Reed gave us the green light. He actually said that it's good for me--endorphins and all."

She sees Miranda inhale sharply through her nose before she takes a step back. "Regardless, I think we should wait longer."

Andy takes a step forward. "But I don't want to wait," she whispers. Her fingers pop open the button.

Miranda looks down as if she wasn't aware her blouse could do that. "Andrea..."

"Please," she says and gently takes Miranda's face between her hands. Her skin is warm and soft and Andy's body aches for the closeness they used to share. She drops the sexy act and admits, "I wanna feel normal again."

Miranda's hands circle her wrists, but she doesn't give her what she wants. "I know you do, darling, but we don't have to rush anything--"

"But we're not," Andy argues. "Dr. Reed said that it's okay."

"Still--" Miranda begins and her eyes dart to the scars on Andy's head. Oh... wrong move.

Andy steps back, feeling far less sexy. She regrets not covering them up, though whatever she put on would have ended up getting in the way. She wondered how Miranda felt about the scars, wondered if that was all she saw anymore, was afraid to ask. And now she thinks she's gotten the answer and fears Miranda will never see anything but the scars.

"Am I not attractive anymore?" she asks with a half-hearted shrug of her shoulder, her voice coming out as a mere broken whisper. She begs her dumb brain not to make her cry, but she can already feel her lips turning downward in an involuntary pout.

Which is when Miranda's eyes widen and Andy barely has a chance to register what's happening before she's held in a strong grip, her lips captured in a searing kiss, the likes of which she hasn't experienced in... _god_ , she doesn't even know how long. Before the accident. It seems her entire life is now divided to before and after the accident.

When Miranda releases her lips, she gasps for air and clings on tightly to her body, dreading the moment she'll let go. She doesn't let go, though, keeping their faces mere inches apart. "Don't _ever_ doubt that I want you," she says, her voice low and urgent.

Andy takes a deep breath and feels the moisture form in her eyes without her permission. "Then please," she whispers again.

And Miranda admits just as softly, "I don't want to hurt you." Bizarrely, she sounds more vulnerable than Andy feels, which is an anomaly on its own because Miranda rarely ever lets herself show vulnerability, even with Andy. But this is an opening for Andy: a crack in the door that Miranda gives her the opportunity to open wider.

"You won't," she promises, even as she herself has her doubts, her concerns. But they won't know until they try and Andy doesn't want to wait anymore. She pulls Miranda with her toward the bed. "You won't, just please..."

She doesn't give Miranda another chance to object before kissing her again, pressing her lips hard against Miranda's own. She wants to cry out with gratitude when Miranda kisses back, when she wraps her arms more tightly around her waist. Taking a chance, Andy opens her mouth and tentatively licks Miranda's lower lip. Miranda responds in kind, parting her lips and inviting her inside. Andy sighs and melts into the embrace. Finally.

  
**Week 5**

Andy doesn't hear Miranda walking into the bedroom until she says, "What's all this?" She looks up from her laptop to see her look around the bed in puzzlement. Following her gaze, Andy regards the sea of papers around her. It's not so bad. Is it?

"I'm working," she clarifies, and just saying that makes her feel a thousand times better. Normal.

It does nothing to rid Miranda's face of its frown. "You're not due to be back at work for another week," she says as she takes several steps toward the bed, her tone careful, as if afraid of upsetting Andy again.

"I know, but I need to be prepared."

"Prepared how? You're a journalist," Miranda says as she picks up a few pages threatening to fall off the edge of the bed. Andy huffs and takes them from her.

"I can't go to work as a writer if I can't remember half of my vocabulary. I need to bring my A game."

"Andrea, I'm sure everyone will understand if it takes you time to readjust." It's a nice sentiment, but an empty one. The publishing industry is a cut-throat business, especially at a magazine such as _The New Yorker_ , and no one is going to care that Andy had an accident a month and a half ago. If she can't keep up, she's burned. The editor-in-chief of _Runway_ , of all people, should know that.

"Andrea."

Stopping her furious typing, she looks up with another huff and locks eyes with Miranda, who seems to be losing her patience with every passing moment. She really hopes they're not about to have an argument because she's too--

"Aren't you tired?"

"A little," she admits, then smiles proudly. "I had a really long walk today, did Renée tell you?"

"She did," Miranda replies and begins collecting the stray papers littering the bed. "But, darling, I don't want you to overwork yourself. You're still not entirely well."

Way to bring her down from her high, Andy thinks glumly. But she feels too good to take it to heart; today is the first day in a long time that she's felt like a real, functioning, living person. Still, she straightens her back, stretches her neck, and cracks her fingers, and despite everything, fatigue does begin to settle in, even though she's already had her nap.

"How was your day?" she changes the subject, watching as Miranda carefully removes her jewelry. She's always found it a fascinating experience to witness her strip down from a goddess to a mere mortal like Andy.

"Fine," Miranda says on an exhale, ever the elaborator. "I still have that dinner with Vishinsky and Alejandro later. It's a shame you can't join us; they've both asked about you. Everyone is very interested in your well-being."

"Yeah," Andy says and leans back against the headboard. "I hate to miss sitting in a pretentious, overpriced restaurant, eating a third of my food, and enduring a conversation I don't care about."

She gives Miranda a good-natured smile to take the sting out of her words and, wonder of wonders, Miranda's own lips lift in amusement.

"What about you? Any visitors today?"

"No. Thank god," Andy answers and sighs. She knows people are well-meaning and have the best intentions and, honestly, she's touched, but she didn't expect _so many_ to care so much about her and finds the process of welcoming guests quite exhausting. She much prefers the ones who send flowers, and thanks to dozens and dozens of people looking to get on Miranda's good graces, those have been plentiful.

"Good," Miranda replies and starts unbuttoning her blouse. "You should rest anyway."

Andy is aware of the words coming out of her mouth, but she's much too busy staring at the new pieces of skin revealed to her, along with a stunning, blue, lacy bra. She really is not in the mood for any strenuous activity at the moment, and after five years, she rarely finds herself so feral as to not stand seeing Miranda's body without jumping her bones. But then again, they've also rarely ever gone without sex for such long periods of time, and the sight does take her back to the fabulous night she and Miranda shared the week before. A light tingle settles in the pit of her stomach.

When she finally tears her eyes away from her chest, Miranda's face is set in a knowing smirk and Andy thinks her own cheeks might be reddening. She leans back toward her computer.

"By rest, I mean now," Miranda calls over her shoulder as she rounds the bed toward the en suite, thankfully to resume her undressing in there.

"Soon," Andy mumbles, her fingers flying across the keyboard. What's the word for the bills and coins you pay with?

  
**Week 6**

Andy descends the townhouses's front steps and sighs. She can't remember much from the ten days she spent in a hospital bed, but her fight with Miranda is one of the more vivid recollections she has, including adamantly refusing to have a personal chauffeur.

Yet here she is now, face to face with a middle-aged man in a uniform, holding the door (on "Miranda's" side) open for her. She concedes that even in her "normal" state, she couldn't walk all the way to the _New Yorker_ offices, and reminds herself that she did agree to let Miranda arrange her transportation.

That doesn't change the fact that she's already feeling like a huge phony, being driven around on someone else's dime when she's done nothing to earn it besides being Miranda Priestly's significant other. She suspects these feelings of inferiority will never go away, not entirely, at least not until she makes a real name for herself and people suck up to her because of _her_ and not Miranda.

So, she pushes down the awkwardness and reluctance--and, along with them, the deep-rooted fear of taking yet another venture into the busy road--and climbs into the car.

Inside, there are built-in containers of sweets and nuts as well as a cooler with two bottles of _San Pellegrino_. She has no doubt that Miranda is behind those little additions and she can't help but feel warmth inside as she reaches for a jelly bean.

Her eyes remain closed for the majority of the ride, her fists clenched as she wills herself to take deep breaths. _It'll be okay,_ she reminds herself. _Accidents don't happen twice; definitely not in such quick succession._ Her internal monologue does little to convince her.

But she fights, nonetheless, to maintain the high she's been riding on, to not let her apprehension and anxiety bring her down. She's finally begun to feel better, she's going back to work, and she's wearing a beanie that was designed especially and exclusively for her by no other than Donatella Versace. Things are looking up.

_I can do this, I can do this, I can do this--_

"Miss?" She opens her eyes to realize that the car is no longer moving, that her office building is standing erect outside her window, and that her driver--Mark, as he introduced himself, not her driver--is looking back at her.

_I did it._

She feels good again. She feels better than good--she feels invincible. She gives Mark her most grateful grin.

*

"Ladies and gentlemen, look who's back," Dean, her co-columnist, declares from her side, receiving most of the bullpen's attention, and Andy feels a blush warming up her cheeks.

She bumped into him stepping out of the elevator and he was more than excited to see her; one of the first people to call her in the wake of her accident and one of the first to like her when she joined the magazine.

In comparison to her former job at _The New York Mirror_ , when she came to work for _The New Yorker_ , her anonimity didn't follow her, and those who didn't tease her about her relationship status merely resented and ignored her, certain that she'd only landed the job through Miranda's connections while the rest of them had had to work hard for it.

Dean belonged to neither of those groups; partly because he hardly knew who Miranda Priestly was, but mostly, Andy believed, because of his own rich and famous father. He could never be sure on what merits he'd gotten his dream job just as Andy took a while to believe that her writing _was_ good enough for such a big and popular magazine.

It was through their shared uncertainty and misgivings that they formed an instant camarederie. It was through Andy's hard work and talent that she won the rest of the office's respect.

Now the bullpen is filled with the sound of applause and cheers, thunderous and genuine, making Andy's blush, she's sure, darken.

Dean continues, much to her embarrassment, "Not only did this girl survive a car crash; she survived not one, but _two_ surgeries." The applause resumes, someone actually whistles, and Andy gives Dean a look that's both flattered and begging him to _stop_. He, of course, doesn't. "How many of y'all bitches can say you've almost died trying to get a story? Yeah, I'm looking at you, Garrett."

Chuckles follow his statement before, thankfully, the room goes silent. Andy's eyes lift to see David come out of his office, her editor giving her a friendly smile as he heads toward her and Dean.

The usual sounds of the bullpen commence--frantic typing, phones ringing, voices overlapping, and has it always been so noisey?--and Dean's arm drops from around her shoulders.

"Welcome back, Andy." David stops before her, placing his own hand on her shoulder momentarily. "It's good to see you again."

"You, too," she replies, genuinely meaning it. Despite all the noise and embarrassment, she truly has missed this place, this feeling of routine and purpose. It definitely beats staying in bed most of the day.

"How are you feeling?" David asks and she can see his eyes wander flittingly across her body, trying to detect any damages with attempted subtlety.

"Much better, thank you."

"Tell her she should take that stupid beanie off," Dean chimes in from her side and, despite herself, Andy can feel her shoulders tense. "She should be proud of her scar. Like a war wound."

Thankfully, David sends him a pointed look. "How's your article coming along, Lawson? I'm looking forward to reading it." Resigned, Dean raises his hands in surrender and retreats to his cubicle.

David gives Andy a knowing smile, which she returns. Then he gets that look on his face that Andy recognizes immediately: back to business. "Now, are you sure you're ready to be back? Because as I told both you and Miranda, you can take as long as you need to recover."

Andy tries to ignore the fact that this, too, went through Miranda and answers instead, "Yep. Desk duty, the doctor said. So, that I can do."

"Alright." He nods. "I may have a few things I can give you. All the big stories have already been snatched in your absense, but if you're supposed to take it easy anyway, I'm sure I can find--"

"Um, actually," Andy interrupts him and reaches into her bag, rummaging through the contents for her notes, "I've already started working on something from home."

"Oh?" He raises an eyebrow, looking cautiously pleased.

"Well, it's nothing big, just a little piece about the tension between upper and lower class. Just, you know, easing back in. You might not want to take it, but--"

"Can you have it on my desk by the end of the week?" he cuts her rambling short and she looks up from her bag. There is no smile this time, but the same knowing look is back in his eyes. She blows out a breath of relief and gratitude.

"Absolutely."

"Good." He nods again, then gestures toward her cubicle. "Then get to work."

He does, turning and going back into his office, and Andy follows his example and heads to her cubicle, where an edible arrangement is waiting on her desk.

"Aww, you guys," she calls and looks around. Some people look back, grinning. "Who did this?"

Sarah, her cubicle mate, gives her a secretive smile. "Just a little something from all of us--a 'welcome back' gift."

Chris, from a nearby cubicle, pipes up, "Yeah, though I told them that your missus probably watches your figure like a hawk, so you can give it to me if you want."

Andy picks up an eraser from her desk and chucks it at him, which he ducks expertly. Sarah, for her part, rolls her eyes and states, "Shut the fuck up, Chris." To Andy, she leans closer and says, "It's good to have you back, girl."

Andy puts her bag down and replies, "It's good to be back."

However, when she finally settles down to work, it proves tricky. Words, once again, evade her brain, slowing down her writing, and the noise around her certainly doesn't help. Usually, she can block it out, but now even music through her earphones turns out to be a distraction.

"Hey, Sarah," she whispers and Sarah looks up from her computer screen. "What's the word for, um..." she falters, looking for the right way to describe it, "like, when you go to a party, with lots of other people?"

"Getting drunk?" Sarah smirks.

Andy stifles a groan and tries again, "No, I mean, I don't know, talking and hanging around with everyone?"

No longer joking, Sarah gets a thoughtful look on her face. "Uh... mingling?"

"Yes!" Andy hisses and just catches her co-worker startle at her exclamation before turning back to her screen. "Thanks."

"You're welcome," Sarah drawls, making it sound more like a question.

A few minutes later, Andy leans toward her again. "Hey, what's the class between the lower and upper classes called?"

"Seriously?" Sarah furrows her brows.

Andy gives her what she thinks is a pretty pained look. "Just help me out here."

"Middle class," she answers as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. And it is. Andy doesn't even thank her this time as she returns to her article, gritting her teeth.

_The middle class is hardly portrayed, if at all, to illustrate mainly the tensions between the polar opposites of upper and lower class..._

_None of the characters are... are... independent of social class, and everything they do, say, or wear is... ugh,_ definitive _of their place in society..._

_While in the end the film argues that people can set aside their differences, it is not forgotten how difficult it can be due to... due to... to..._

"FUCK!" Andy pushes her keyboard roughly across her desk, then covers her face, fighting the urge to bang it against the desk (since, considering recent events, it might not be the best idea). When she looks up, however, she's overcome with mortification. Some of the noise has subsided, but to her horror, about half of her co-workers are now staring at her. She wishes, in that moment, for the ground to open up and swallow her whole.

"Andy?" Sarah whispers, eyeing her in concern.

Andy gulps. There's a lump in her throat. She's beginning to feel the pressure building up in her head and she wants to scream again. Or kick something.

She does neither.

Filled with humiliation, she gets up, grabs her bag, and makes her silent way through the busy cubicles to the exit, feeling everyone's eyes on her as she leaves.

*

Mark's black Mercedes is right outside her building when she steps out into the street and she wonders if he ever even left.

She gets in and slams the door shut before he even has a chance to exit the vehicle and do it for her. She feels like crying and has to summon every ounce of self-control to maintain her composure. And dignity, because god knows she's already embarrassed herself enough for one day.

What was she thinking? Of course she wasn't ready to go back to work, even if Dr. Reed had said she technically could. Technicality and practicality are two very different things in practice.

She should have listened to Miranda, who said--not in so many words--that she was pushing herself too hard, too far, too fast. For fuck's sake, she can barely even string together a whole damn sentence without her stupid, broken brain getting stuck. She can probably kiss her career goodbye.

"Where to, Miss?" Mark's voice cuts into her thoughts, startling her out of the soliloquy she's sunk into.

Staring out of her window, she mutters hollowly, "Home."

The engine revves up and the car starts moving.

_"Writer?" the driver asks, meeting her eyes in the rearview mirror._

_"Journalist."_

_"Oh, really? What paper?"_

_"_ The New Yorker _."_

_He nods. "Good paper. Good paper. They have funny drawings on cover."_

_Andy chuckles. "Yeah--"_

_A blow. Her body getting tossed around. Her seat belt almost choking her. A sharp pain in her arm. Something banging against her head. Nothingness._

"Stop the car," Andy commands. Her voice sounds unrecognizable to her ears, with a sharpness to it that she's never heard before.

"I'm sorr--"

"I said, stop the car," she repeats, her breath coming out faster, her heart leaping to her throat. "Now."

She clings to her seat belt as Mark navigates his way out of traffic, stopping by the side of the road. Then he turns to the back seat. "Is everything o--" She's already unbuckled, throwing the door open and leaping out.

Outside the air is fresher, cooler, and it doesn't make her feel even close to better. She hears the car door open behind her, but doesn't turn around, even as Mark calls, "Miss?"

She closes her eyes and tries to block out the noises of the pedestrians and cars, tries to take deep breaths and calm her racing heart. She's sure she's providing passers-by with quite a show and has little doubt that some tabloid or other will be running her panicked picture with a mean, witty comment come tomorrow.

"Go home," she instructs weakly, but raises her voice just enough to be heard over the noises of the city. Her eyes open, but she doesn't turn around.

"Miss, I can take you wherever you'd like," Mark offers, sounding precautious. He's probably under strict orders from Miranda to not let her go two steps without him.

"I can manage on my own," she says, and before he can object, she's already walking away.

She doesn't know how long she walks and she doesn't know where she's going. She navigates her way through the crowds on the sidewalks as if in a dream: her limbs heavy, her consciousness barely registering the stares she gets from some.

She doesn't know how she gets there, but when she looks up, she's standing before a tall, familiar building. Her legs move of their own volition, leading her inside, and around her people murmur. She lowers her head and goes through the revolving doors.

One of the men at the front desk recognizes her instantly and smiles, saving her the task of speaking as he practically leaps around the desk, leads her to the elevators, and presses the button for her.

When the doors close in her face and she's standing among a group of people who can't help but sneak glances her way, she feels bad for not thanking him, but she's not sure her voice would not have betrayed her anyway.

Passing through the reception area is easy and eventless and then she's striding through the familiar corridors, once again inviting stares and whispers. By the time she pushes the glass door into the outer office open, she thinks she's on the verge of a full-blown panic attack, and one of the assistants only has a chance to look up and utter a surprised "Hey" before she's inside Miranda's office, her chest rising and sinking rapidly with the culmination of her impromptu work-out.

Miranda's face, when she looks up from her desk, morphs from a look of irritation at the disturbance to bewilderment, to worry, and finally, understanding.

She puts down her pen, rises from her chair, passes by Andy, and shuts the doors. "What's wrong?" she says the moment they're left to their privacy, but from her tone Andy knows that she'll have very little explaining to do.

That's when she lets loose. The tears come before she can even expel a breath, and that breath comes out as a sob that makes way for several others to follow, rocking her body with their force.

She doesn't see or even sense Miranda coming closer until her arms are around her body, startling her momentarily before she allows the embrace. Miranda holds her, hesitantly at first, then with more certainty, and she doesn't say anything while she rubs Andy's back and strokes her hair.

Andy speaks up instead, her words shakey and punctuated by hiccups. Those she can remember. "I can't do this anymore. I can't," she weeps.

"What can't you do?" Miranda asks calmly and quietly, a polar opposite of Andy's little meltdown.

"Everything!" Andy exclaims and pulls back, wiping snot from her upper lip. Miranda frowns and moves to the table behind Andy, who turns around and continues, "I can't w-work, I can't ride in cars, I can't even s-speak!"

When Miranda is standing before her again, she's holding a tissue and uses it to gently wipe her tear-streaked cheeks. Andy takes the item from her hand and blows her nose as well.

"I know I sound like a broken record, I know I need to grow up and stop wallowing in self... whatever the word is--feeling bad for myself, but I can't, okay? I can't." A fresh wave of tears blurs her vision before escaping her eyes and the tissue is nothing but a damp, crumpled mess by now.

Though she expects Miranda to grow exasperated again, to tell her to get a grip, she does nothing of the sort. Wordlessly, she places a hand on her back and leads her to the couch, where she offers the entire box of tissues. Andy feels encouraged enough to go on.

"I'm sick of everything. Every day is a struggle, doing the simplest things is a struggle. I don't know my own brain anymore and I can't stand people staring and feeling sorry for me, and I hate walking and I hate car rides even more!"

"Andrea," Miranda says, and although the look she gives her is meant to soothe, it's pained, too. Andy also hates that she has to drag Miranda through this torturous experience with her. "You won't feel this way forever. It hasn't even been two months--you need to give it time."

"But it's easy for you to say!" she argues, her heartbeat pounding in her ears and temples. "You don't feel like shit all the time and... and I-I don't know the words I want to say." Another round of sobs shakes her body and Miranda's hand on her thigh, though warm and tender, is not enough to fix her frazzled nerves.

"Okay, calm down," she says in a voice that is both gentle and firm and Andy cries harder. When she's pulled to rest against her side, her cries are muffled by Miranda's neck, but the steady rubbing of her back is somewhat reassuring, grounding. "You're working yourself into a bigger panic."

"Well, I'm sorry I'm not as cool as you," she retorts bitterly and immediately feels sorry, but Miranda doesn't seem to mind.

"Remember when you could barely move your arm?" she begins softly and Andy frowns. That was weeks ago. Voicing her thoughts, Miranda says, "Now you can hardly remember the sprain.

"Or when you had headaches and nausea every second of the day and could barely keep yourself awake," she continues as Andy hiccups into her neck. "You're doing much better now than you did a month ago. In a month, you won't remember what you're feeling now. It takes time, Andrea."

Andy wants to believe her, she really does, but from where she's sitting with her head in the crook of Miranda's neck and her body convulsing with quiet sobs, she can't see it ever getting better.

She doesn't want to tell Miranda that every time she gets in a car, her memory insists on taking her back to That Day and her body freezes with the remembered shock of the blow and the pain and the unmitigated fear.

She doesn't want to tell Miranda that despite all the scans and despite the doctor's words and despite Miranda's own reassurances, she fears her brain will never return to full function, that she will never be able to lead a normal life again or do her job or be the person Miranda fell in love with.

She feels broken and she doesn't want to tell Miranda that she's terrified of the future.

"I just want to be over everything already," she mumbles into the warmth of Miranda's skin instead, wetting it with her tears. Miranda doesn't seem to mind that either.

"Soon," she assures her, though there's very little meaning behind it. She thinks Miranda might actually be as freaked out as she is at the moment, if not more.

She's so tired.

  
**Week 7**

David has permitted her to take more time before returning to work--partly because he's a genuinely nice and caring person, but mostly because he's terrified of poking the bear that is Miranda Priestly.

Miranda, however, is a different story.

"I can write from home," Andy says as she turns away from the front door, ready to drop her bag. "David said I could do that."

"You are not writing from home," Miranda replies, and though her voice is calm, Andy knows that challenging her would be, in fact, poking a bear.

"Miranda, this really is a bad idea--" she begins, hearing and hating the whiney note in her tone, but Miranda folds her arms against her chest and shoots her a pointed look.

"Andrea." She feels like a child begging her mom to let her stay home from school. Miranda's scaring techniques are certainly more effective than her own mom's, though at this point, Andy is pretty much immune.

So she tries to appeal to her partner instead, to her emotions, softly admitting, "I-I can't." She shrugs her shoulder and swallows around the lump in her throat, refusing to cry like, well, a child.

"You can't what?" Miranda inquires, unrelenting.

"I can't..." Andy exhales. She bites her lip. She bounces her foot repeatedly on the floor. She inhales. "I can't go in the car," she finally says, her voice now no more than a whisper.

And realization dawns on Miranda's face instantly, the disapproving frown smoothing out and her features softening. Andy's not sure whether she feels for her or feels _bad_ for her, which is decidedly worse. Maybe it's both.

"Andrea..." she begins and, for once, she seems to be the one struggling to find the right words. Her fingers come up to run through the strands of hair unhidden by the beanie, an uncharacteristic gesture that Andy's not sure which one of them it's meant to comfort. Her face also takes on an unwontedly warm and tender expression.

"I can't promise that you'll never get hurt again," she says and Andy frowns. If this is her way of calming her down, then she's doing a terrible job. "We don't know that. Bad things happen all the time. But you can't live in fear forever."

Andy gulps and shakes her head. "I can't."

"So, what? You'll stay home for the rest of your life?" Miranda asks, and though her words are impatient, her tone is anything but. Andy shrugs her answer.

"You know you can't do that," she states simply. "The longer you refuse to deal with your trauma, the harder it'll be for you to return to normal. I thought you wanted to feel normal again?"

Andy, however, is stuck on the word "trauma," because the second Miranda uttered it, her chest tightened. It sounds so big and heavy, and what happened to her doesn't seem significant enough to deserve that title.

People experience car accidents all the time--every day, really. Some die, some suffer a fate worse than death; Andy got off, she realizes, pretty easy. She has all her body parts, she has her mind (albeit a bit fucked up), and she's up and functioning a mere two months later.

The word "trauma" does something to her: makes her feel uncomfortable and guilty. She shouldn't assign it to herself, shouldn't burden the rest of the world with her inability to cope, especially when so many others have it way, way worse.

She doubts this is what Miranda was going for, but it has an anavoidable effect nonetheless.

She feels like a complete phony; constantly complaining, not pushing herself hard enough to get out of her situation, making Miranda think she's _traumatized_.

She used that word before, didn't she? In a fit of anger, trying to make Miranda see what she was going through, what she was feeling. It felt right then, when she _was_ feeling much worse, when every second seemed that much closer to death--or at least made her wish for it.

It feels wrong now, when those days are not much more than a vague memory. Now she doesn't have a right to use it, doesn't have the excuse of her physical symptoms. Just the feelings she refuses to overcome.

"I do want to feel normal again," she finally answers Miranda, her voice sounding weak and ashamed to her own ears. Then she bites her lip again, furrows her brows, and looks into Miranda's eyes, searching for reassurance. "What if I can't deal with it?"

"You can," Miranda answers simply, as if there's no other possible scenario. She also doesn't exactly offer the emotional encouragement Andy was hoping for, rather giving her a matter-of-fact answer. Which is, Andy concedes, more of her style. "You're strong and you're resilient and you'll get through this like you do everything else. You're like me."

To Miranda, that's probably the most sincere compliment she can give Andy--words she doesn't spare easily and to just anyone--even if its utterance lacks emotion. Andy remembers the first time Miranda said those words to her: right before she walked out on her and the job a million girls wanted. They've been through so much since then. Back then, who could have possibly foreseen  _this_?

And, really, if she could earn Miranda's forgiveness and acceptance after _that_ , Andy can do anything. What's a little brain injury?

And she is like Miranda, she realizes. More than that: Miranda is someone she doesn't want to let down.

*

She doesn't know what she was trying to prove and to whom when she sat on "her" side of the backseat--perhaps bolstered by Miranda's words to try and move forward, overcome the... not trauma... whatever it is she's going through--but it does nothing to put her mind at ease. Then again, the other side didn't do a very good job laying her fraught nerves to rest either.

But nevertheless, here she is: riding to work, preparing to endure stares and murmurs and questions after a week's absence post her little breakdown. Preparing to forget all her words again.

"I think you're very brave," comes the voice from the driver's seat and Andy looks up to meet the owner in the rearview mirror, her eyebrows knitted readily.

"Excuse me?"

He nods at her, elaborating as if reading her mind (though it wouldn't take a genius to figure out her anxiety), "Getting in a car again after an accident. It's scary."

If Miranda was his passenger, he wouldn't dare open his mouth, much less pry into her personal life and feelings. Andy tries not to get upset--Mark really is nice, from the little she's gotten to know of him, reminding her a little of her uncle--but this, quite plainly, is none of his business.

"I don't wanna talk about it," she mumbles, turning to stare out of the window at the passing scenery, eyeing every car carefully. All it would take is one car, one driver--

She screws her eyes shut, her nails biting into her palms.

"My wife died. Eight years ago next month," she hears the voice again and opens her eyes. It's much softer now, only loud enough to be heard over the engine and traffic outside. And pained.

Andy wants to be irritated at his persistence, but she finds herself hurting for him, her heart squeezing unpleasantly in her chest. Once again, she tries to imagine what it would be like to lose Miranda--what it must have been like for Miranda to almost lose her.

Now, that's traumatic, what Miranda went through. _That_ would be a trauma great enough for Andy to claim as her own: losing the love of her life forever.

Her eyes find Mark's in the mirror and, through the sadness in his eyes, he gives her a small, knowing smile. "Car accident," he explains and Andy's heart squeezes harder.

"She was going to get us dessert," he continues and chuckles mirthlessly. "Such a foolish reason to die, isn't it? But, she insisted. We'd had a lovely dinner together that I'd cooked and she said we needed something sweet.

"The road was icy. She was driving carefully, I'm sure. But..." He looks away and his hands briefly leave the steering wheel as he spreads them at his sides. "It was no one's fault."

"I'm so sorry," Andy whispers, unable to think of anything eloquent enough to say. Or anything helpful, really.

He gives her another, half-hearted smile in the mirror. "Like I said: no one's fault." Then he sighs.

"I couldn't get in a car after what happened. I'm not sure exactly what I was afraid of." His brows furrow as if only exploring his thoughts and motives for the first time now--maybe he is. "It wasn't so much that I was scared of getting hurt or hurting someone else. Maybe it was just superstition: putting myself in the same situation."

He shrugs as if it doesn't really matter and silence ensues. Andy tries to catch his eyes in the mirror again, but he's now looking straight at the road ahead. Her own eyes sting, she discovers in horror, with unshed tears.

"I think I was mainly angry," he finally speaks up, his voice quiet again. "I'm not even sure with whom or... with what. With everything: the road; other, living drivers; this killing machine on wheels." His hands tap the steering wheel before he makes a turn. Andy's heart starts beating just that little bit faster at the remembered notion of the danger constantly lurking ahead.

"But the point is," he goes on, "I just couldn't bare the thought of putting myself behind the wheel and driving, like nothing happened." His eyes lift to the mirror again, locking on hers. That knowing smile is back in place, but it's sad now and filled with empathy and shared... trauma. "You know what I mean."

It's a rhetorical question, one that Andy doesn't feel the need to answer. She wipes a couple of tears from her cheek, but the act is futile since more come rolling down unpermitted. When she opens her mouth, her voice comes out small and wavering. "I just don't know what to do."

The tears come out faster than before with her little admission and she wipes her nose with the back of her hand but doesn't look away, instead searches Mark's eyes--almost pleads with her own gaze--for guidance, for some words of wisdom from someone who's gone through what she is, who found a way to come out of it.

He doesn't provide her with what she needs. "Of course you don't," he says. Then, as though reading her mind, he adds, "There is no easy way out, no magic pill you can swallow to make everything better. That's just life." He smiles at her again, his eyes warm and comforting. "And one day, you'll find yourself sitting at home or at work, eating dinner or brushing your teeth or making yourself a cup of coffee, and you'll realize that... you're okay."

"Just like that?" Andy states dubiously.

"Just like that," he replies plainly. "Life goes on. There's no other way."

Her head lolling to the side, she leans it against the headrest and stares out of the window. On the road, cars glide freely, stopping at red lights and signaling their turns. "How did you get in the car again?"

"I made myself," he answers. "Eventually. I told myself that... no matter what I did, it wouldn't bring her back. And she wouldn't want me living the rest of my life that way: angry, afraid, stuck in limbo." Closing her eyes, Andy feels another wave of tears escape its confines and doesn't bother wiping them away.

"I also talked to someone." Reopening her eyes, she looks in the mirror. Mark gives her a meaningful look and nods. "A professional. It sounds like a cliché, but it works. It really does. He helped me come to terms with what had happened and, more importantly, he helped me see that there's a life beyond it."

As Andy considers his words, the car slows down before finally coming to a halt. She hears shuffling before Mark turns in his seat, offering her a tissue and a warm smile. Gratefully, she takes the tissue and dabs at her face. Her make-up is ruined, but there's nothing she can do about that other than wipe away the smeared colors.

"What was your wife's name?" she asks softly once she's done.

The smile on Mark's face becomes warmer, softer. "Elaine. My high school sweetheart."

Andy returns the smile, even as her heart aches for him and his loss. For herself, too. "That's a beautiful name."

"She was a beautiful soul," he replies and her smile, though wobbly, widens. She tries to imagine such poetic words coming out of Miranda's mouth, but she supposes only some people can pull them off without the cheesiness. Perhaps they only work on the dead, but she has no plans of leaving any time soon.

*

The front door opens just as Andy sets the last bowl on the table. She listens for the sound of the closet door opening and closing, the sound of heels, and finally Miranda appears in the doorway to the kitchen, big eyes roaming around the table.

"What's this?"

"Dinner," Andy answers matter-of-factly, but flashes her a sweet smile.

"Did you cook?" she asks as she takes a few steps further into the kitchen, examining the table's contents.

"Well, no, because you don't want me to overextend myself. And also, I'm a little tired," Andy admits. "Marina made all of this before she left."

"Hmm," is Miranda's only response as she approaches the head of the table. "Well, is it ready?"

Andy gestures with her hands toward the variety of food--a non-verbal "Can't you see?" Looking pleased enough, Miranda sits down and Andy takes a seat as well. She takes it upon herself to serve them both before digging into her meal.

"How was work?" Miranda asks. Her tone is careful and her eyes are fixed on her plate.

"Good," Andy answers. At that, their eyes finally meet and she smiles. "It was okay. I'm gonna take it slow."

"Good. Good." Miranda nods and takes a bite from her fork. After swallowing, she questions, "Did anyone say anything about last week?"

That was something Andy was worried about, but she's happy to answer, "Nope, and even if they did, there's nothing you could do about it." Miranda's eyes narrow at her and so Andy covers her hand on top of the table, caressing the back of it with her thumb to take the sting out, because she really is grateful for Miranda's protectiveness. Well, mostly. Sometimes.

They continue to eat in companionable silence until a few minutes later, when Andy speaks up, but this time she's the one to keep her eyes on her plate. "So, uh, I was thinking... about what you said at the hospital..." She feels Miranda's gaze boring into her face and finally looks up, meeting her raised eyebrow and baffled look. She clarifies, "About me having my own driver."

She can see the moment Miranda takes a sharp intake of breath by the way her nostrils flare and her chest expands. Then she looks away, stabs a piece of chicken with her fork, nonchalantly asks, "What about it?" and takes a bite.

Andy feigns the same nonchalance as she replies, "I think Mark's okay."

"Mark?" Miranda frowns at her and Andy's not afraid to roll her eyes.

"The man who's been driving me. He can be my driver. If that's okay with you," she adds slyly.

Sipping her water, Miranda says, "I think we can work something out." Andy stops herself from laughing at the ridiculousness of the situation. Miranda had, no doubt, already requested--well, demanded--that Andy get a personal chauffeur assigned to her before Mark showed up.

"Anything else?" Miranda asks. Andy can't make out much from her tone, but her eyes run across Andy's face, seemingly searching for something.

It's now or never, she tells herself as she takes a sip of water, takes a deep breath, and takes her courage in both hands. "Yes. I think I should talk someone. A professional." Miranda's face remains blank but for one eyebrow rising again. "I think it could be good for me."

Besides a subtle nod that's barely there, Miranda doesn't offer a response. She cuts into her chicken, takes a bite, swallows, and finally says, "I'm sure we can work something out with that as well."

And Andy's lips slowly stretch into a smile as she covers Miranda's hand again and squeezes. This time, Miranda flips her hand and intertwines their fingers, squeezing back. They'll be able to work something out.

 

_**End.**_

**Author's Note:**

> As of right now, there's one more addition planned for this series, so stay tuned.
> 
> As usual, your comments make my day and mean the world to me!


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